


The Darkest Hour

by AroJade (AlleyCatSunflower)



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: Based on a Dream, Dark, Gen, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2020-03-07 19:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18879790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleyCatSunflower/pseuds/AroJade
Summary: …Is not necessarily before the dawn. What is it really like for an army to face the Chimeriad, even knowing the enemy is outnumbered? And what is it like being the last man standing against four such highly trained warriors? No spoilers.





	The Darkest Hour

The troops are restless again tonight.

Resolution will come only when day breaks, along with the bloodshed caused by setting four hundred soldiers against four—yet anxiety still sweeps through the camp like the wind before the rains. There is no safety in numbers. They've heard tales of how badly past armies have fared against them. Few enough soldiers have survived an encounter with such elite warriors that no one knows what to expect. Worried speculation fills the camp until, one by one, sleep overtakes them all.

The sun approaches but does not show itself, and with dawn comes tired wakefulness. Soldiers pray to an empty sky, or chatter nervously to one another to keep their minds off their destiny, or lock themselves inside their heads and hope their terror doesn't show.

It's time. The sun finally rises, casting its light over the barren battlefield as the troops advance. As they halt in their formation, each side observes the other. The outer soldiers are stiff with suppressed fear, exchanging glances, thoughts of running crossing every mind. The four in the center are relaxed, calmly taking in the sight of the enemy surrounding them, and waiting patiently for them to make the first move.

The sound of the commander's signal is drowned out by the blood roaring in the soldiers' heads, but some can see his mouth move. As they charge, a few battle cries are cut off, steel stabbing or slicing cleanly through their throats and taking their voices with them. A few others become shrieks of agony or pleas for mercy as bones creak and splinter.

As the battle wears on, their enemies become less human. One is a snatch of wild laughter, a blaze of fire scorching the battlefield. She rips through flesh without any concern for whether the cut is clean, but the heat she generates will cauterize any wound she gives… and incinerate the rest of their bodies, too.

Another is a distraction, alluring and deadly, the kind of danger some men like to court. She stands apart from the others with a book in her hand, stepping lightly away from the swings of swords and axes, until a pair of dragons come swooping out of nowhere to devour her suitors.

The third, a giant, is whatever part is closest—a beard, a hand, a leg—before their skulls crack or their necks break. They feel him coming for them before he arrives, but their legs are too weak to run as he raises his hammer, and the last thing they see is its shadow blotting out the beauty of the sunrise.

The last one is the flash of a blade, swift as lightning. Those he kills don't know they're dying until they notice their strength is suddenly sapped by a gash in their gut, the warmth of their insides spilling outward. Their muscles falter, and they slump unceremoniously to the ground as life leaves them.

The sun has not climbed far by the time the final soldier stands amid a sea of bodies, clutching his meager weapon in sweaty and trembling hands. All four of his targets still stand, regarding him coolly, waiting for him to stand and fight or run away. Either way, he is a dead man.

The certainty of his fate calms him, and he charges the man in black.

He reaches his target and, before he can even swing his sword, he drops it: a katana has been plunged downward into his chest. Its wielder takes his time with his last kill, cruelly, and the breathless soldier tries painfully to gasp as he observes the hilt buried in his breastbone.

Rather than draw the sword back out again himself, his murderer plants a foot on his stomach and kicks him to the ground, impassively observing the blood slick on his blade as his last victim falls. The soldier's senses dull mercifully quickly, numbing the pain throbbing in his lower back and cooling the warmth pooling on his chest.

The world finally fades in his eyes and ears, leaving him a corpse like all the others. He has no last words; no lingering thoughts remain—not of loyalty to his country, not of love for his family, not even a final wish that he could live. His soul has gone from his body, and with it, any desperate hope of victory for his side. The enemy has won the day, barely past its beginning.

But for those who lost, the darkest hour is just after the dawn.


End file.
